Niphredil by Dawn Felagund, Grundy, Idrils Scribe, Nienna

arvi straightened the fresh sheet of paper on her desk.

It wasn’t actually necessary; her desk was tidy and all that she needed for sketching, note-taking, or drafting stowed neatly in their places, always ready for a fresh idea. First her parents and then the master she’d apprenticed with had drilled it into her that housekeeping was necessary for a craftsperson with aspirations to any degree of success, and that applied both in the workshop as well as in the office. In the workshop it was a matter of safety; in the office, it was a matter of efficiency.

The rustle of paper caught Celebrimbor’s attention, and he looked up quizzically from the doodle he was absorbed in – from the looks of it, decorations for their project. When they’d first started working together, she’d found it annoying that he was as likely to start thinking on the little filigrees at the conclusion as at the beginning, but she’d since learned enough to not interrupt the workings of his mind. However he arrived at it, the end product would be well worth it.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked.

“It’s not bothering me,” she sniffed. “It’s just…disappointing. After all that fuss you made about preparing me for talking to your little cousin, all she wants is some combs with flowers on them for her uncle – and white flowers at that. I was expecting something more challenging.”

“I would have thought you’d consider anything for Finrod a challenge,” Celebrimbor said in mild puzzlement.

“Finrod…”

It took her a moment to recognize the Sindarin name.

“You mean to tell me she’s commissioned these boring white flowers for Felakgundu?” Narvi demanded, aghast.

The Cavehewer was held in high regard by her people, and to send him such a simple thing when he’d lived in one of the finest examples of joint dwarven-elven craftsmanship of the old days, before the eastern lands had sunk, and worn one of the others… Unthinkable! She’d be the shame of Khazad-dum.

No, strike that. She’d be the shame of Durin’s Folk in general, the tale told to warn young dwarves of not holding themselves to high enough standards.

“As I recall, he was fond of niphredil,” Celebrimbor shrugged. “Besides, surely a master craftsman can elevate even such a simple request as ‘boring white flowers’?”

Narvi glared at him.

“Easy for you to say. I notice she didn’t ask you.”

“I’m not a dwarf,” Celebrimbor chuckled. “I suspect she saw it being your work as important as it being the flowers she thought he would like. Besides, flowers are the creation of Yavanna, your Maker’s mate – surely you can’t rightly call anything of hers boring.”

“Arguing all the sides at once as usual,” Narvi sniffed. “No wonder Men have that curious saying about you.”

She grinned at the unusual sight of an adult elf blushing, as well he might.

She had every hope that the bon mot of the Man from the ships after Celebrimbor had carefully gone through all possible approaches to a particular problem – “go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes!” – would pass into proverb and be around for him to blush at long after she had returned to stone.

“I was considering all angles,” he sniffed. “He probably forgot it once he had his solution. That new winch can take twice the weight the old one did.”

“As you say,” Narvi replied with a grin. “I think you made quite the impression.”

The tale had been widely circulated in the waterfront pubs, that much she knew, and it had gotten a laugh from every one of the Men who heard it. It rated only a small chuckle from her people, who were already well versed in the foibles of elves in general and this one in particular.

“And what kind of impression do you mean to make?” Celebrimbor asked. “Though be careful – raise the level too much and you’ll find yourself inundated with commissions the next time a ship arrives bearing word from the West. The elves of Aman love new things, and the Noldor have a keen eye for craftsmanship.”

“That’s fine, if they’re willing to trade some of those exotic metals in return,” Narvi shrugged. “Interest in new things and fine craftsmanship is found on this side of the Sea as well.”

“Either way, I’m sure Finrod will appreciate your take on niphredil. And no doubt Amarië will as well.”

Narvi looked at him quizzically.

“His mate,” Celebrimbor elaborated.

“He married?” Narvi spluttered. “Recently? Is this by way of a wedding present?”

It was pressure enough to be asked to make something for the Cavehewer and his wife, but a wedding present would have to be something extraordinary even by dwarven standards. She’d need to equal the famous necklace at the least!

“No, not recent. I believe he married almost immediately on his return to life,” Celebrimbor replied. “My uncle and aunt told us of it during the War.”

Narvi let out a hearty sigh of relief.

She contemplated the problem. She needed to do well, not just because it was going to Felakgundu, but because it would be scrutinized by elves who had never seen or met a dwarf. She felt the responsibility of being the example of her people keenly.

“The comb itself will be of true-silver, of course. Nothing less will do. And I’ll wager that even your Noldor in Aman won’t have learned to work it as we have.”

“No bet,” Celebrimbor said. “I’ve never seen or heard of anything mithril brought from Aman, so if they’re working mithril, it’s only since the War. What about the flowers?”

“That needs some thought,” Narvi replied.

Unlike him, she’d think it through quietly, not aloud.

There were many types of rock or gem she could use for the flowers. The technique she had used for the combs Celebrían had seen before was easily adapted to suit the characteristics of each particular type. Very few were too fragile or too brittle.

She shuffled through her mental inventory of stone and gems, ticking off pros and cons for the various options as she did. She wanted the perfect color, but it would also need to catch the light just right, to capture the sparkle of sunlight on living petals. And she would have to be able to lay her hands on enough of it…

---

It was nearly a year later before what Celebrimbor couldn’t help laughingly calling her ‘boring flower commission’ was finished and ready to lay before Celebrían.

It had grown slightly in the making. Rather than the simple combs with a few flowers that Celebrían and her mother wore, this was a matched set of pieces somewhere between a comb and a circlet. Not just one or two flowers, each one was a spray of niphredil starting just above the temples and trailing over the ears and down to the base of the skull, curling around to not quite meet in the back. That left some space for a clever band of metal that could be used to adjust the sizing to fit the wearer’s head properly.

She’d done her best on the size, of course, even going so far as to request an interview with the formidable Lady Galadriel and enduring the glare of the woman’s mate to come up with the best estimate she could for both the Cavehewer and his Amarië. In Felakgundu’s case, it was all but certain the fit would be correct – for his sister had gifted him both hats and circlets in their youth, and was able to convert from the measurements of Tirion quite accurately. His mate was more of a question, but Narvi was confident in her work – even a child should be able to adjust it to fit comfortably.

And the flowers were worthy of their intended recipient.

Delicate petals of the whitest opal, shot through with just the right hint of colors to evoke a spring morning were set off by jade stems and leaves, and peridot accents for the green splashes on the inner petals. A few carefully placed and exquisitely shaped diamonds here and there served as morning dew. The flowers looked so vibrant and real that it was only when you touched them the difference became apparent – and Narvi had gone out to find a patch of the real thing for comparison.

She had wanted to be sure she was not sending shoddy or inferior work. If this was the only thing the Deathless Ones would ever see to remember her by, it would be nothing less than her very best. 

She had been exultant when Celebrimbor pronounced himself unable to distinguish between the real and the artificial using his eyes alone. That was well enough – she knew his people had other senses, but without those to work with, she couldn’t be expected to improve beyond sight.  Had this been a collaboration between them, she might have asked Celebrimbor if he could, but the Lady Celebrían had been quite specific on that point. She wanted dwarven craft, not elven. So that was what she would have.

Her only regret as she packed them was that she would not get to see the Cavehewer and his mate wearing them, or their reactions. She could only hope her work would rate a mention whenever Felakgundu next wrote to Lady Celebrían - and that the letter might arrive while she lived.

Narvi wrapped both pieces carefully in cloth of mithril before boxing them for Celebrimbor to carry to his cousin. She didn’t doubt Celebrían or her mother would add more practical wrapping to protect the small bundle on its long journey West, but this too was made by dwarves, and perhaps it would tickle Felakgundu to see as well.

dearest, I would be much obliged if you could send me some Niphredil bulbs, as the flower is unknown here in Aman. I would share the scent with Amarië, and remember Lúthien by them. They would also be a great comfort to Queen Melian, who sends her regards.

It had been but a footnote buried in one of Finrod’s longer missives, but Celebrian had been eager to fulfill her illustrious uncle’s request - more than eager, even. She knew of Finrod’s lasting obsession with all things Dwarvish, his nostalgia for days gone by and friendships lost. She had endeavoured to double his joy by dispatching not just the real flower, but its likeness wrought in Dwarvish gems. She might have known that so prestigious a commission would … escalate. 

The box of filigreed stone Celebrimbor had brought her upon his return from Khazad-dûm was certainly too large to hold the simple hair-combs she commissioned. The hammer and anvil of Durin’s emblem were finely wrought in the lid’s geometrical patterns, with seven stars rendered in mithril. She eyed it with trepidation. 

Celebrimbor laughed at her hesitation. “Ai, niece, I vouch for Narvi! She did not put a snake in there!” 

“Neither is it a hair comb.” Celebrían answered him adroitly. 

He smiled, bright and open. “Did you truly expect the greatest craftswoman of Khazad-dûm to send the legendary Felakgundu an ordinary comb? Narvi was deeply honoured by this commission. Few Dwarvish artisans will have their work immortalized in Valinor!”

“Oh.” Celebrian felt foolish for not understanding this sooner. Perhaps it took a fellow crafter to do so. Despite her hundred winters she suddenly felt like a silly little girl, unworthy to touch the mysterious Dwarvish chest.

“Go ahead, open it and be awed!” encouraged Celebrimbor, smiling fondly.  

With careful hands Celebrían lifted the lid and folded back the layers of cloth-of-mithril that shielded the jewel within from view. Underneath, cocooned in a layer of indigo velvet, lay a single, utterly perfect sprig of flowering niphredil.

Her breath caught in her chest and she felt tears prick her eyes at the delicate, vulnerable beauty of it. This was no simple hair-comb with a flower motif such as she had believed to be ordering. 

This was a circlet to fit a forest king.

A waterfall of niphredil rained down as she lifted the mithril head-band from its wrappings. The flowers would trail over the ears and down to the base of the skull, curling around to the back. They were absolutely, impossibly, impressively perfect.  

Where her eyes could not find a single give-away in the blooms, the touch of her fingers revealed that the petals were of white opal, shimmering with just the right whirl of color to evoke a morning of palest spring. The stems and leaves were jade, and peridot accents for the green splashes on the inner petals. What appeared to be morning dew sparkling on the petals proved carefully placed and exquisitely shaped diamond droplets.

“Come here,” said Celebrimbor as she sat down once more, struck silent by the masterpiece she held in her hands. He rose to stand behind her, and reverently lifted the circlet from her fingers to place it on her head. She felt him adjust some clever Dwarvish fastener at the back, and the jewel molded itself to fit as if made especially for her. 

He took her by the elbow to carefully turn her towards the mirror above the fireplace, and once more she could do nothing but gasp. 

“A vision of a lost world.” Celeborn’s entry had been quiet as a stalking lynx. 

He was carrying a simple wooden crate, the contents obscured by a wax cloth cover. The rich scent of forest humus rose from it. He must have freshly dug up a glade of Niphredil.

Her father set down the bulbs, and extended his hand to carefully touch the jewel-flowers hanging down over her silver hair, so like his own. “Just so did Lúthien array herself with dwarvish work to dance in the glades of Neldoreth, when Doriath still believed in the good faith of the Stunted Ones.”

Celebrían cast a cautious look at Celebrimbor. Even now Celeborn remained prone to brooding over his destroyed home.

“Ai, Adar,” she sighed, laying a hand on his shoulder and feeling his knotted tension unwind beneath the comfort of her touch. 

Celebrimbor was less gentle. “It has been an age of the world. How long will you stew in bitterness? Has the time not come to forgive?” The close collaboration between the jewelsmiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and those of Khazad-dûm was a long-standing source of disagreement between the Lord of Eregion and the head of the Mírdain.

Celeborn gave Celebrían’s hand a gentle pat and turned to the window. The casements stood open to the balmy air, and for a long, dragging moment he looked out across the shimmering roofs of Ost-in-Edhil, glazed tiles reflecting the summer sun in a riot of colour. 

“Aye, kinsman. Grudges serve no purpose, and they tend to poison their bearers. But I counsel my daughter not to forget.” Celeborn once more touched the jewel as it rested on the silver fall of Celebrían’s hair. “My kind-hearted child. Send this Dwarf-jewel to Finrod, he will be enthusiastic as ever. But for pity’s sake, before he starts parading it around Valinor, remind him to keep it from Queen Melian’s sight.”

Celebrían lifted the crate’s wax cloth cover to reveal the delicate bulbs beneath, each one nested in layers of soil and straw. Celeborn was a forester at heart. He had taken utmost care so that this living gift would weather the long journey west. Her father might remain stuck in the losses of his past, but he was quite literally sowing the seeds of renewal. He, too, would have some growing to do.

ncalimë watched the ships docking in the harbor. She had recently taken on the task of overseeing the goods brought from overseas and helping to bring them across Númenor, as she was to be Queen soon and wanted to have a sense of her kingdom’s most important trade. She ambled down to the dock, leading her horse beside her and enjoying the feel of the early autumn winds on her arms.

 “Maybe I can listen to the evening birds while I ride and when I settle in for sleep tonight!” she thought gladly. 

Lately she had been sleeping outside whenever she could. She figured she might as well do it now, before she became Queen and ended up stuck in the stuffy city. Not that she wouldn't spend time outside then, because of course she would. She would make sure of that! But all the same, she knew she wouldn't have quite the freedom that she had now. And she was glad of this, she really was. She was incredibly grateful for the chance to rule over her people, to make changes and improve lives. But that didn´t mean she wasn´t savoring the period of life she was in now, or that she wouldn’t be sad when it ended. 

The sailors and stevedores started coming out of the ship in droves. Ancalimë led her horse into the barn, and then started looking for Abrazân, the manager of transportation. At last she found him at the edge of the boat, talking heatedly to someone else. She waited a minute for him to finish, and then approached.

When he saw her his mouth widened into a big smile as he said, “Ancalimë! Good to see you!”

He patted her on the back and gave her a somewhat crumpled list. She saw that it was a copy of the official log of all of this ship’s items and where they were to be sent. 

“We have an item being sent all the way to Valinor,” said Abrazân. “Narvi’s craft. It is supposed to be quite good, although I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet myself. Anyway, the lady Celebrían specifically requested that you transport it. Would you be willing?” He paused for a moment and looked around pensively. “It’s a longer trek than normal, I reckon at least a few months. But you’d get to visit your homeland, right?” 

“I’d love to,” Ancalimë responded quickly. “I’m honored that Celebrían would think of me.”

As usual, most of the items were headed to the big markets in Arandor. This time, there were also some hardy trees, transplanted from the Blue Mountains, as it was thought they might grow well in Forostar, and some luxurious velvet fabric for all the noble families in Armenelos. “Possibly even for my coronation,” she thought somewhat deliriously. 

She scanned the list for Valinor. It was certainly not unheard of for her people to transport items to Valinor, but it was not an everyday occurrence. It had been… well, it must have been six years since the last shipment had come towards Valinor! “Delicate Niphredil circlets in a sturdy Dwarven box, as well as a wooden box containing live Niphredil bulbs, to be sent to Finrod and Amarië,” the description read. Ancalimë could not believe she was transporting an item for Finrod and Amarië themselves! She had read all about Finrod, even outside of her schooling, just for fun, which was something she rarely did. She couldn't wait to see the commission for herself! 

She carefully walked onto the ship, easing around the flurry of people. The goods were separated into sections by where they were going, for the sake of the transporters, so, being the only Valinor boxes on this ship, they were pretty easy to find. 

Ancalimë sat down on her knees, closed her eyes, and gently ran her hands along the side of the stone chest. It was cold, as only stone could be, but also had a depth to it, so that she could move sideways and feel the thickness of the material behind it, almost dizzying. Patterns were carved in deep, so that she could almost see them through touch. The whirling, winding patterns…. and geometric ones too, sturdily whole where the winding ones were open and unfinished. She opened her eyes to see that the box was even more beautiful than she had imagined or quickly glanced. The top was carved with a large emblem of Dúrin, surrounded by the seven stars. The sides were full of thick and somehow three dimensional looking squares and diamonds, mixed with swirling filigrees.

It took Ancalimë a minute to notice the simple wooden box next to it. When she did, she opened it and saw layers of soil and straw covering what must be niphredil bulbs inside. She carefully reached inside, pulled out a bulb, and rolled it between her fingers. A little bit of dirt fell off as she did so, and landed in the basket. A wave of strangeness and wonder washed over her, similar to the feeling she sometimes got when looking at her reflection, as if through another person’s eyes. “I am touching something from Middle-earth,” she thought. Not that she hadn’t before, of course, as many of Númenor’s goods were made in Middle-earth. But this was different somehow, to be holding something physically from the ground. The niphredil bulbs were a relic of another world, a world which she had never seen and might not ever see, but which held all the stories she had grown up with. Middle-earth had always been a landscape of her imagination, airy and far removed, and littered with personal significance built up through the years, but the bulb and dirt in her hand brought into sudden focus how very real and alive it was. Ancalimë brought the bulb to her lips to feel its smoothness more fully, and then put the niphredil away. She carefully picked up the boxes, held them to her chest, and walked off of the boat.

Ancalimë tacked up her horse to one of the carts stored nearby, and gently placed the boxes inside. She tied them in place very tightly, and even tied multiple ropes crossed over it in all different directions. Maybe it was a bit excessive, but these were much too precious to leave any chance of damage through bumping up and down. She climbed onto her horse and set off towards Eldalondë, thinking still of the niphredil that she carried.

Amarië couldn't find the right word. It was the poet's plight--that's what Elemmírë, her longtime mentor called it--that itch on the edge of her brain as the word stirred itself but would not come forth. The birds in the trees, usually a gentle backdrop to her work, were suddenly so loud to be distracting, as though her mind was looking for any reason not to complete this commission to adequate satisfaction.

The poem was for Ingwë, to be read at the first gathering of the three Valinorean kings and the two returned kings from Middle-earth: Ingwë, Olwë, Arafinwë, Elwë Singollo, and her own Findárato. Although the gathering had not been formally declared as such, it was widely understood to be a reforging of alliances, of seeing themselves again not in terms of clan but as a single Eldarin people.

Amarië's poem should reflect that theme, but everything she penned came out episodic, singing the praises of one people before moving on to the others. The connections, too often, were of mingled blood spilled amid treachery and war. Like a stained glass window, each stood vivid and resplendent but utterly apart, untouching. Furthermore, why--how--could she, Amarië of the Vanyar, who hadn't ever set foot further than Alqualondë, write of such far-flung places and unusual people?

And now this word tickled at her brain, likewise undiscovered, a microcosmic symbol of her problems with the commission as a whole … Amarië would have to confess that, at that point, she flung her quill across the room. Or tried to. It was a feather; it did not fling far before tumbling to the floor in a most unsatisfying way.

From the road came the distant sound of hooves, drawing closer. Amarië welcomed the distraction to climb the tower and peer out over the road. Yes, a messenger wagon approached the house she shared with Findárato. She let herself become lost in a flurry of preparation. She was wearing an old patchwork tunic, made from her favorite dresses as a girl, grown soft and worn with overuse, and it was hardly appropriate for receiving a visitor, even just a messenger. Now she was a queen, after all--no matter if her husband's realm did not extend far beyond a workshop, garden patch, and a stripe of forest better for hunting mushrooms than hart--and she sensed that the eccentricities once permitted her as a spinster poet were no longer appropriate. She slipped a gown over the tunic--it had an inkstain on the skirt, but she could stand in such a way to hide that--and slipped down the stairs right as the birds quieted with the arrival of the messenger.

Findárato had heard the hooves as well and was leaving his workshop as Amarië exited the house, trying to walk how she imagined queens should walk. He'd gone to no such trouble. His tunic was half unlaced in the heat of the afternoon, and there was a smudge of red clay on one cheek.

Amarië went through the correct motions with the messenger: offered him a cold cup of water and a place to sit in the shade, had a groom tend the horses, said all the appropriately grateful things about the necessity of his profession to those who, like they, lived in the hinterlands. She hoped the messenger would remember her in the city as graceful and the rumor would spread and, with the same persistence as the ivy picking at the stones of her tower, efface her reputation as the poet who mumbled to herself and did her marketing only to return home to discover her tongue ink-blackened from licking her quills. He declined all of her hospitality but the water for him and his horses and was swiftly gone on to the next farm and another delivery. As the hoofbeats faded, Amarië stripped off the gown, right there in front of the house, and fanned the old patchwork tunic to cool skin dampened by too many layers in the sun on a hot afternoon. Only then did she notice Findárato, still waiting with a box in his hands and another, larger, at his feet.

His eyes laughed like sunrise on the sea: blue and bright with the memory not just of Light but of having gone forth to the world. " My Amarië, my queen," he said, "who would rather wear a comfortable tunic than open the gift sent to her from across the world."

"There's a word I can't--" she began and then stopped. The word sat square on her tongue. Anneal. A strange, Noldorin word but one of unity, of strengthening. Exotic, but not unpleasant. "Valar …" she gasped, "from across the world?"

Gently, the box in his hands was opened. The crown within was too resplendent for the likes of her, but it sat weightlessly upon her golden hair as though it was meant to rest there. Findárato kissed her face; smeared her with his red clay, named her with undeserving praise until the tears brightened her eyes.

Next came the box at his feet, filled with bulbs, so carefully packed for their long journey. He put his face into them to smell their scent and that of the earth that still clung to them, then held them to her. This was the scent of his home for many long years. What he breathed in his lungs--what he knew of the world--when we were apart.

With their scent in her nose, her mind ventured to wild places: to the dappled light beneath ancient trees, rivers that murmured with the secrets of Creation, a world awakened and enlivened by Vása so warm upon her shoulders. From the cradle of Valinor, he had brought forth healing and arts there and now returned with something else, with a strain of the Music that teemed with unfettered life, with the joy of stretching to the sun and not stopping.

Amarië awakened from her reverie with the poem complete not in her mind much less on paper but in her heart, on her knees in the dooryard, stretching hands filled with bulbs to Vása, in a patchwork tunic and a crown as fair as any worn by a queen on either side of the sea. "We should plant these," she said to Findárato, as he helped her to her feet, "right away."

As Vása sank toward Vai and its journey through the dark and toward another morning, Amarië sat again in her tower, the rejected quill in hand. She stroked its feathers lovingly, as if in apology. There was dirt on her knees: the earth of Valinor now mingled in a small way with the earth of Endor. Some of the bulbs had already had green life emerging, so eager were they to live in their new land. Even now, they twined unfamiliar flesh amid the familiar earths of her home.

That was it, she thought: the roots in the dirt, ancient castoffs stitched into something new and loved, the ivy on her tower grasping green life to stone, the words from over the sea that had slipped into their speech like strangers into a crowd, the annealing: vivid life brought forth of metal and stone. A gift passed with such loving care through so many hands to come to her: a sorrowful girl-poet become a queen, so many shapes and colors of hands leading her forth to speak a dream of allegiance, of love.